It's Too Soon (Too Soon to Say Good-Bye)
by exalteddm
Summary: Miracles come in threes. Or they're supposed to, anyway. - In which Annabeth hopes, but no amount of hoping can bring back the dead. Post-TBM, spoilers for The Burning Maze and The Sword of Summer. One-shot.


Title from Claude-Michel Schönberg's "Finale" (from _Les Misérables_)

* * *

Miracles come in threes, Annabeth knows.

Or they're supposed to, anyway. She doesn't actually have any sources to cite on the matter, which ordinarily would bother her, but right now . . . well, right now isn't exactly the time for that.

_Please_, she begs silently, squeezing Percy's hand tight enough to elicit a grunt of pain. _Please, for him. For Jason_.

From the wooden podium twenty feet in front of her, Reyna Ramirez-Arellano, daughter of Bellona and praetor of the Twelfth Legion, pauses in the middle of her speech to choke back tears.

"Jason Grace," she says firmly, once she's composed herself, "was one of the most talented demigods I ever knew. Always the first one into the thick of the fighting, always the last one out. And he was a good person on top of that—if he was backing a cause, then you knew it was worth fighting for. If he were here with us now, I know what he would say . . ."

* * *

_Camp Half-Blood, Three Years Ago_

"_After so long a silence," Chiron says slowly, "it is unlikely our prayers will be answered. I have asked his surviving best friend to do the honors."_

_He motions to Annabeth, who refuses to look at him as she drops the sea-green burial shroud into the campfire. She can feel the tears rolling down her face, knows they're visible for the whole camp to see, but she can't seem to summon the strength to care._

_Percy Jackson is dead. _

_It isn't fair, she wants to scream. He wasn't done yet. _I_ wasn't done yet. There was so much we had left to do . . ._

_She turns to the rest of the campers, gathered around the harsh light of the camp amphitheater's fire. They'll expect her to say something—it's tradition, or so she's told. But the words stick in her throat, unwilling to leave._

"_He was probably the bravest friend I ever met," Annabeth says at last. Someone steps noisily into the back of the amphitheater—Annabeth ignores the surge of anger at the idea that anybody would dare to be late to _Percy Jackson's funeral—_and she tries to keep speaking. "He—"_

_The figure looks at her, eyes, wide, and Annabeth recognizes him instantly. Those bright green eyes, that mop of messy black hair— "He's right there!"_

_She wants to be angry with him—no, she wants to be _furious_. But a late miracle, she decides, is better than no miracle at all . . ._

Percy moves toward the bed of ashes, and Annabeth follows.

* * *

No one else is nearby. They've said their goodbyes already, she figures, or they don't want to face the fact that Jason might actually be gone. Of course, none of the people here _knew_ him, not the way Annabeth and Percy did—he'd been Camp Jupiter's mentor, leader, and praetor, but the Seven had been _friends_.

Frank, Hazel, Nico, and Reyna—they've already had days to process this. Piper and Leo are . . . absent, she's been told. Somewhere in Oklahoma, trying to get the McLeans settled in their new home. But they've known, too.

She doesn't want to believe that they'd willingly miss Jason's funeral, but, well, here they are. Or aren't.

Beside her, Percy's lips start moving, and Annabeth looks away. Whatever he's saying to Jason, it should be private, between the two of them. She ought to say something, too, but the only thing running through her head is _Please. Come back to us, please, it's been done before, I know you can . . ._

* * *

_Boston, Six Months Ago_

_Annabeth crumples the poster using one hand, throws it on the ground, and stomps on it. Then, since she doesn't actually feel any better, she does it again._

_That doesn't help either._

"_Annabeth, sweetheart," her father says gently. "I know it's—I know it's difficult, but . . ."_

_She stops and sits down hard on the sidewalk, the papers forgotten. "He's really in there, then," she whispers. "He's really dead. There's a body and all the paperwork and everything and later today there'll be a funeral."_

_Frederick swallows. He doesn't look like he knows how to respond, but he tries anyway, and Annabeth is a tiny bit grateful. "I'm afraid so."_

"_We should have been there for him," Annabeth says. "We could have—I don't know, taken him in. Done something. No one deserves to die like that, all alone in the world." Being a half-blood is a risky business, yes, but at least she knows that when she dies, it will be among friends. Magnus Chase, her own cousin, didn't have that luxury. "_He _didn't deserve that."_

"_I know, Annabeth, I know." Her father's eyes are tired—exhausted, even. They've been running around Boston for days, searching fruitlessly for Magnus, only to find—too late—that he'd been killed before they could reach him. She feels exhausted, too._

_Annabeth climbs to her feet and approaches the door of the funeral home, placing her hand on the knob. "We should go in and see him. It's the least we can do."_

_Her father nods, and she slowly pushes at the door. _

"_Much better," she hears a voice in the room say, a voice she recognizes in a heartbeat. "At least that looks like me."_

_Annabeth wrenches the door open the rest of the way and stumbles over her own feet in her haste to enter the room. A figure in—is that a _Wiggles _t-shirt?—stands over the casket in the center of the floor, looking down at something. Even from behind him, Annabeth recognizes the Chase family's trademark blond curls, and her heart drops into her stomach._

"_Magnus?"_

_Her cousin jumps nearly half a foot off the ground and looks up at her, eyes wild. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Annabeth lets out a yell._

"_I knew it!" she exclaims, though she's unable to say exactly _how_ she knew. "I _knew _you weren't dead!" She sprints over to Magnus and wraps him in a hug—a little forcefully, maybe, but hey, who can blame her? Magnus is alive!_

_Well, not quite _alive_, as she learns later, but alive _enough_, she supposes . . ._

* * *

"Please," Annabeth murmurs under her breath, "please don't be dead." Miracles come in threes, and people she cares about showing up to crash their own funerals is an _awfully_ specific sort of miracle, so maybe, just maybe . . .

If anybody deserves to live, it's Jason Grace. He's always been the best of them.

He's supposed to be _safe_. They finished their quest; they _survived_. Jason is supposed to have his happy ending, just like the rest of them, and he definitely doesn't deserve to have it ripped away from him by some pointless quest that isn't even his.

Annabeth thinks she's crying again, but she's given up on pulling herself together. She stands in silence instead, clutching Percy's hand and staring at the ashes of one of her best friends.

"Annabeth," Percy whispers, his voice hoarse, "I—do you think—?" He cuts himself off and sighs, shaking his head.

"What is it?" she asks after a moment, the words rough in her throat.

"If we'd done things differently, if we'd gone with Apollo, do you think—do you think we could have saved him?"

She opens his mouth to deny the idea, but she can't bring herself to lie. Not to Percy, and not about this. "I don't know," she says. "I don't think we'll ever know."

He stares off at nothing in particular, blinking. "I thought so." Then he looks up at her, meets her eyes, and Annabeth knows he's accepted it: he knows that Jason isn't coming back.

"Jason chose his path," Percy says slowly. "He took on another responsibility that wasn't his—always doing that, the bastard. Never knew what was good for him." He swallows. "But I think . . . I think he'd be happy, if he knew what he accomplished. He did the best he could."

Annabeth nods. "He always did."

They turn away together, making their way toward the funeral feast in Jason's honor. Annabeth isn't hungry—how could she be?—but she'll eat something. Jason would want that.

Miracles come in threes, Annabeth knows. Or maybe, she thinks, they don't, because—well. Here they are.

Or aren't.


End file.
